


Packin' Heat

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: If It Ain't Baroque [5]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Mick likes Cat Videos and Women's Wrestling, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mick gets a fever and all the joys that come with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Packin' Heat

The second Mick wakes with a clogged nose, he lets out a monstrous groan that’s loud enough to make Vulcan jump off his stomach.

“Aw, come back, Cat,” he croaks. Mucus has already dripped down his throat.

It’s only gonna get worse. Always does. _Ugh_.

Forcing himself to get out of bed, Mick peels off his shirt and pajama pants. They’re drenched with sweat, so he’s definitely not imagining the rising fever under his skin. He replaces them with plain boxer shorts and a [_I Hate to Waste Sick Days on Being Sick_ shirt](http://rlv.zcache.com.au/i_hate_to_waste_sick_days_on_actually_being_sick_t_shirts-r41164393bd6742e291b2089b4c220830_jyrsc_324.jpg), rolling up the sleeves.

Next, Mick drags the fan from his closet and plugs it in next to his bed. He grits his teeth when even that feels like a chore. He felt _fine_ yesterday. What the fuck?

Whatever. Tissues, water, soup, aspirin. Let’s go.

Once he’s got everything in order, Mick turns the fan on and lies back down with another groan. Vulcan’s fed too, fresh water’s in his bowl. Everything’s all set up.

Mick forces down a couple aspirin and eats his soup. His phone plays a few cat videos on a loop.

Once he’s done, he blows his nose and—ah, shit. Forgot the trashcan.

…too tired. Later.

Mick opens a new text.

_> >Mick (7:22 AM)  
Sick. Got a fever. Probably not a good idea to come over tonight._

Damn it. He’d been looking forward to seeing Len. It’s so rare for them to spend more than their nights together, and this week’s a shitty week.

Mick gropes for his lighter. It falls to the floor.

He does _not_ whine. Not at all.

Fine then. Time for more cat videos.

* * *

Mick ends up watching women’s wrestling for a while. After a couple hours of that, he tries sleeping again. Vulcan comes back to settle in the bend of his legs, which helps with his grievously low comfort factor.

He wakes a mere hour and a half later holding Vulcan against his stomach, mucus crusting and dripping all over his nose and pillow, and sweat coating every inch of his skin.

Fucking— _ugh_.

Grimacing, Mick cleans up his face and turns over his pillow. Vulcan stirs, but thankfully stays where he is. Mick sighs quietly through his mouth as the cat starts purring, soothing his roiling stomach.

“Thanks, Vulc,” he slurs, scratching behind his ears, “yer’a good cat.”

Vulcan trills a little in response. Mick feels inexplicably blessed.

“Think I should fall asleep? Yeah?”

Mick stuffs a bunch of tissues under and around his cheek this time. He doesn’t sleep so much as fall into a feverish doze.

* * *

This time he’s only out of it for forty-five minutes at most. Disgruntled, Mick chugs half a water bottle, plays a couple rounds of Candy Crush.

His phone starts shouting _“I whip my hair back and forth, I whip my hair back and forth!”_ at around one o’clock.

“Not a good time, Haircut,” he mumbles.

Ray Palmer, chipper as ever, exclaims, “I thought we were supposed to do lunch! I got worried.”

Ah shit. That’s right. “’M sick.”

“Ouch. You sound it. Rain check?”

Mick grunts.

“Rain check,” Ray translates. “Do you need me to do anything? Feed Vulcan, or get you medicine?”

Far as friends go, Mick supposes he could do worse. “Jus’ shuddup and lemme go back t’sleep.”

“Sure thing, Mick.” Ray’s smile is audible. “Call me if you need me.”

 _If you wanna reach me—_ oh great. Now Mick _knows_ he’s sick. He mumbles something and they hang up.

Back to Candy Crush.

* * *

The sunset doesn’t bring the excitement it normally does, ‘cause Lenny’s not visiting. Mick wonders when his nights became as fun as his days.

But then, at 5:30 on the dot, Mick gets a text.

_> >Len (5:30 PM)  
Yes, because human disease is such a deterrent. I’m on my way._

Sassy bastard. Mick gives the message a tired grin.

“Lenny’s comin’ over,” he tells Vulcan between pets. As if understanding, Vulcan gives an enthusiastic meow. “Yeah, buddy.”

Within minutes, a bat’s using its tiny feet to open Mick’s window. In seconds, Len’s standing in the room and pulling it shut behind him. He’s wearing a [_And Then Buffy Staked Edward, The End_ t-shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/maskedofficial/works/11802945-buffy-staked-edward?p=t-shirt) with his usual skinny jeans/combat boots combo.

“Figured you wouldn’t wanna get up and open the door,” he says. “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

Mick gives a wet snort. “You say that t’all the guys?”

Len scoops Vulcan in his arms, carrying him like a baby—Vulcan’s favorite way to be carried—and smirks, “Only to a _special_ few.”

“’M sure.” Mick dissolves into a fresh bout of coughs as soon as he finishes saying this.

Len grimaces, “I vaguely remember being sick. Of course in those days, you were probably gonna die. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Oh, yeah. ‘M over _joyed_ , Snart.”

Len walks to the door. “I’ll feed your cat. Anything else?”

Mick smiles a little into his tissues. “An ice pack.”

The vampire’s smirk returns. “That can be arranged. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Ha-ha, asshole.”

There’s obvious sounds of someone walking around Mick’s apartment, Len purposely making noise that’s audible for human ears. _Awww_ , he _caaares_.

Mick’s smile, feeble as it is, brightens a couple degrees. Two seconds later, it disappears against another sneeze.

* * *

After he’s eaten, Vulcan is deposited back into Mick’s awaiting arms. Len abandons his boots, shucking his jeans.

“Oo,” Mick mumbles as he hears the zipper, “’m I gettin’ a show?”

“You would be so lucky,” Len drawls.

Mick sighs in quiet relief as his freezing body plasters itself against his back, chest to toes. Mobile ice pack. _Score_.

“You’re burning,” Len murmurs.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Now, now, no need to lose your cool.”

“Shut the _fuck up_ , Snart.”

Len chuckles, a rare, pleased sound. He reaches over Mick to stroke Vulcan’s back and mumbles, “There’s no reason for you to freeze me out, Mick.”

“Do I need t’break out the garlic?”

Len presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “I bet you couldn’t even reach the door.”

Mick grumbles some more. Bitch.

“Go to sleep, Mick. I’ve closed the blinds; I’ll be here in the morning.”

Between that assurance and Vulcan’s gentle purrs, Mick finds himself drifting in minutes.

“C’n y’get my lighter? I dropped it.”

Len smiles. “Of course you did.”

Jackass.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
